Inside the training hall.
Mosta was setting up the arena — a massive pit surrounded by old tires, ropes, and metal obstacles.
He moved fast, placing traps, adjusting weights, checking every detail.
Then—creak.
The heavy door opened, sunlight slicing through the dim hall.
A group of young men stepped in. One of them walked ahead with quiet confidence.
Mosta turned toward them.
"Today's group… young recruits?"
"Yes, sir!" they answered in unison.
Mosta : "Good , Let's see what you're made of. Ten minutes of running around the hall—then warm-up drills."
The group started jogging around the wide training area while Mosta tightened the last ropes and tested the traps.
Among them ran a quiet young man—Asian, focused, watching every move Mosta made.
Next to him, another trainee sighed, exhausted already.
"He's gonna kill us again with those endurance drills…"
The Chinese youth shook his head calmly. "No."
"What?" the other asked, surprised.
"Today's different," the young man said confidently. "It's fight day. He's testing combat ability."
"Who told you that?"
He tilted his chin toward Mosta. "Can't you tell?"
The other glanced at their instructor, then groaned. "Oh God… let me survive this one."
Mosta finally stood straight, satisfied with his setup.
"Stop! That's enough running. Time to warm up!"
The trainees formed a circle. Mosta blew his whistle, leading a rapid series of stretches and muscle drills—sharp, efficient, designed to prevent injury.
When they finished, he clapped once, turned, and said with a smirk,
"Now… showtime."
"I'll pick competitors at random," he announced. "You'll stand side by side, wait for my bell, and sprint at full speed. Jump across the tires, climb that rope wall, crawl under the barbed section, and whoever reaches the pit first—chooses the better weapon."
He gestured toward the pit filled with sand and two weapons resting in the center.
"I'll change the weapons every round. Understood?"
"Yes, sir!"
Mosta pointed suddenly at two recruits. "You and you! First match."
They lined up. The air tightened—everyone held their breath.
"Get ready," Mosta shouted. "Steady… GO!"
Clang! The bell rang.
The two shot forward, leaping over tires, sweat flying.
They reached the rope wall—one started to pull ahead.
Far behind, the Chinese youth watched silently, expressionless. Cold. Detached.
Mosta grinned. "Oh! Looks like someone's getting the better weapon!"
The lead trainee crawled under the barbed wires, scraping his arms. The other lagged, sliding down the wall awkwardly.
The first dropped into the pit, panting hard. Two weapons waited: a long steel rod and a combat knife.
Mosta : " Well done, kid," "Pick one weapon and wait for your opponent."
He grabbed the metal rod and crouched, breathing heavily.
Moments later, the second trainee stumbled into the pit, exhausted.
Mosta's voice cut through the silence: "Begin! Fight ends only when one of you surrenders—or blacks out."
Gasps rippled through the group.
The Chinese youth didn't flinch. Around him, whispers spread—
"He's crazy!"
"He's gonna kill us!"
"We're doomed!"
Mosta snapped, his voice booming, "Quiet!"
In the pit, steel clashed.
The first swung the rod; the second ducked and countered with a slash to the shoulder.
Blood splattered. The injured one growled, attacking again—wild, heavy strikes.
His opponent dodged twice, but the third blow caught his leg, sending the knife flying. He fell hard.
The victor raised his rod high, ready to strike—then hesitated.
The loser lifted a trembling hand .
Mosta shouted, "Did I tell you to stop?! Finish him!"
The rod came down with a brutal crack. The second trainee went limp.
Silence. Horror on every face.
Mosta scanned the group coldly.
"You need to understand something," he said, voice low and sharp.
"Out there, in real combat—no one gives you mercy.
Hesitation. Sympathy. Fear. They get you killed."
He pointed at the next pair. "Now—next match!"
The recruits exchanged terrified glances. Mosta walked before them slowly, like a predator choosing prey.
He raised a hand and pointed. "You."
Then he turned. His eyes locked on the Chinese youth.
He remembered him from a previous session.
Mosta walked closer.
"You," he said. Then with curiosity: "What's your name?"
"Maru Yang."
"Alright, Maru," Mosta said with a faint grin. "Show me what you've got."
The two contestants took their places at the starting line.
Mosta watched Maru's calm, focused gaze and thought, This one's different… we'll see.
"Ready! Set! GOOOO!"
Clang!
They bolted forward. Maru's movements were fluid, sharp. His opponent's face twisted with fear.
Maru flew over the tires, faster than anyone so far. He climbed the rope wall in seconds while the other was still halfway through the tires.
Everyone stared in disbelief.
Mosta's lips curved slightly. Incredible speed. Perfect balance. He's built for this.
Maru finished the course first and dropped into the pit. Two weapons waited: a spear and a shield.
"Choose one and wait for your opponent!" Mosta called.
Maru looked at him silently, then back at the weapons.
He picked the spear, sat cross-legged in the center of the pit, eyes closed. Meditating.
Mosta narrowed his eyes. Hmph… a Shaolin monk, maybe? That stance says experience.
Moments later, his opponent stumbled in, gasping for air.
Maru opened his eyes. Calm. Centered. He stood, spear in hand.
Mosta raised his arm. "Begin!"
The other trainee noticed the shield lying near Maru's feet. Maru nudged it toward him with his foot.
The trainee picked it up—confused, but grateful.
Maru dropped into a Shaolin stance, spinning his spear in a flawless arc.
Mosta smiled inwardly. Knew it. Trained fighter.
Maru advanced lightly, feinting, probing.
Three quick strikes hit the shield in rapid succession—clang, clang, clang!
Then he faked left, pivoted right, leaped, and thrust the spear toward his opponent's neck.
The other barely managed to swing his shield up in time—metal clashed, sparks flew. The impact threw him to the ground.
The room fell silent. Every eye widened.
Mosta's thoughts raced. This kid… even without superpowers, he's elite material.
As the opponent struggled to rise, Maru bent down, grabbed the shield—then tossed it out of the pit.
Mosta's pulse quickened. It's over.
Then Maru did something no one expected.
He looked at Mosta for a few seconds—steady, unreadable.
Then he dropped his spear in front of him and kicked it toward his opponent.
The trainee blinked, confused.
Maru smiled softly. "Come on. Pick it up."
The boy lifted the spear, took a defensive stance.
Maru mirrored him, poised—ready.
The opponent lunged, stabbing wildly at Maru's head and chest.
Maru dodged with smooth precision, each motion effortless.
A thrust came low, aimed at his stomach. Maru twisted with the attack, grabbed the spear mid-air, and spun—completing a full turn with a roundhouse kick to the opponent's face.
THUD! The boy hit the ground hard.
The spear flew back into Maru's hand.
The hall erupted in applause.
Mosta stood there, arms crossed, eyes shining. That… was incredible.
Maru climbed out of the pit and approached him.
"Well done, kid," Mosta said. "What did you train in?"
Maru smiled gently. "Shaolin martial arts. For several years."
Mosta grinned. "Then you've just earned yourself a new title—Captain of the village guards."